


The Weathered Grimoire

by caffeinatednightowl



Series: Daughter of Dusk [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Arcanist Questline (Final Fantasy XIV), Au Ra Xaela (Final Fantasy XIV), Au Ra Xaela Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Backstory, F/M, Leaving Home, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, The Hero's Journey, Wanderlust, With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeinatednightowl/pseuds/caffeinatednightowl
Summary: Mara Kahkol has only known life on the Steppe, a life of survival, of being useful, of thinking of nothing else but how to live for her tribe. She wishes to be a warrior but has no talent for weapons, confined to selling the markets or watching sheep to earn her keep. But when she finds a strange book on a dead stranger, she feels an unknown power stir, ancient Eorzean magic that she takes to like she was born to it. There's just one problem, to learn this magic, to master it, she must go to Eorzea...
Relationships: Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)/Original Character(s)
Series: Daughter of Dusk [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024647
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. Everything Has a Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Based on my RP alt, this is the first entry in my Daughter of Dusk series, following WoL!Mara's adventures in finding herself, love, and a home to call her own. There will be more romance in later entries, I promise! For now, this is all setup and backstory. 
> 
> The first two chapters were originally posted on my tumblr circa 2017. The third chapter has been completely rewritten and is essentially brand-new writing. From here on out, everything in this series is new writing.

The wind swept across the Steppe, the grasses swishing and swaying like waves. Empty, so empty, nothing for malms and malms and malms. From Kahkol Iloh, you could barely see a smudge in the distance one way—Reunion, their oft-savior. Turn around, and the Dawn Throne rose up like a kneeling giant, towering and ruling over them. 

Such was the way of Kahkol; the running, the hiding, stepped on and lorded over by other tribes. 

Mara, like many others, was not born to the Kahkol--her tribe had been decimated by the Dotharl long ago. It was so long ago that she couldn’t remember her original tribe’s name. Given her blue hair, her dark eyes, she had reason to believe the tribe had been Hotgo, but she would never know now. Memories of that time were twisted and faded, like trying to view a scene through frosted glass. They were happy times, she knew—she _must_ believe.

But afterward, after the raid of the Dotharl, her mother had taken her and fled into the safety of the Kahkol as they wandered through the destruction. Her mother had been injured, living on for a few more years as an invalid, before leaving this world with one final parting gift—a jade necklace, a wedding gift from her father, and all that Mara had left of her childhood.

The Kahkol, they weren’t her true brothers and sisters; they clung together for convenience, to survive. The remnants of weak tribes living in hope of seeing another day, another year. But they were all she had—all she belonged to now.

When the Naadam came, the Kahkol got well out of the way. In times of famine or war, the Kahkol fled to Reunion in hopes of sheltering for with the Qestir. Always on the run, always hiding, always picking up the lucky ones to survive a raid, growing ever slightly. No matter what, Kahkol would live on. Kahkol would survive, grow. But Mara knew the Kahkol would never be strong enough to stand on its own. Never _thrive._

Though, her original tribe hadn’t been strong enough, either. 

Everyone in the Kahkol had to work. Whether it be tending the sheep, preparing the medicines, putting up tents, tending horses, etc. Some were warriors, hunters; masters of the bow and spear and sword, bringing in the food and occasionally fighting off other tribes’ stragglers.

Mara longed to be one of them, to be strong. But no matter what, she faltered. She couldn’t shoot a bow straight. Her spear thrusts would not break the skin. She swung a sword wildly and off-mark. Even with magic, she was a disaster—a conjurer’s cane or a thaumaturge’s crook felt too big and unwieldy in her hand. 

She tried of course, over and over again. “Teach me!” she begged the Kahkol shaman. “I need to know how to be strong!” Strong enough that the Kahkol would no longer need to live in fear.

But the old shaman had shaken her head. “This doesn’t suit you, Mara. You are not a warrior of the Steppe. There is no shame in that—some of us are not meant to be. But you are a good negotiator, you do well for our tribe in the markets of Reunion. You speak the languages of the tribes and the Domans and the Hingans like you were born to it. That is your purpose.”

Yes, a trader, a seller, that was all she was to them—a translator, someone to bring their wares to Reunion and return with supplies. The shaman said it was a noble calling, and to anyone else, it was, perhaps. The traders got to get out of Kahkol Iloh on a regular basis. They got to trade for food and wares, and perhaps, sometimes, slip away with a little something for themselves. She could speak to other tribes, learn their traditions, hear stories of Doma and Hingashi and even far off Eorzea. For someone not suited for combat, it was an engaging, interesting charge, was it not?

But it wasn’t what Mara wanted.

Night and day it gnawed at her. _She wasn’t strong! She wasn’t a warrior!_ What would happen if the Dotharl or Oronir attacked the Kahkol? How could she protect everyone? They had warriors yes, but Mara feared it would never be enough. It would never be enough for her unless she could stand with them.

Nightmares attacked her of fire, of blood—of the laughing and shrieking of the Dotharl. She couldn’t protect anyone, she couldn’t protect herself, she would have to run and hide and hope she’d get away with her life, all over again!

It didn’t matter _what_ the shaman said, Mara decided one day, she was going to learn how to fight. How to be strong. How to protect what she loved, no matter what.

It was the fire that kept her going, the ache in her heart that kept her warm through the long nights coming home from Reunion and the long days on the move with their wares. She could see it in her mind—someday, one day, she’d be a true warrior of the steppe. An equal to her brothers and sisters of Kahkol, and a terror to those that would dare hurt them again!

Though getting started wasn’t easy.

“You can’t go with us on the hunt,” Ambagai shook his head in the dim morning light. He was a boy her age, having been with the Kahkol even longer than herself. He was tall, handsome, Mara supposed, if the giggles of the other girls had anything to say about it. But he always exasperated her to no end; always thinking it was his privilege to tell people what to do. “You are not a warrior, Mara. Stay in Kahkol Iloh, help the others prepare for market day. That is what you do.”

Mara’s hand clenched into a fist. She was _sick_ of being called weak! For eighteen years that’s all she had even been. “Let me come!” she demanded, grabbing the reins of his horse so he couldn’t run off and leave her. “How am I to learn how to be a warrior if I never practice?”

Ambagai’s brown eyes narrowed, shaking his head. “Mara!”

“Enough!” Mara snapped, her dark, violet eyes wild. “Either you let me come, Ambagai, or I run off and try to hunt myself!”

Ambagai, sighed, glancing over at his best friend Khudu. Khudu as a grey eyed, grey haired Xaela, who had once been Qestir. He perhaps had a crueler fate than any other Kahkol; banished from his tribe for trying to speak as a young boy. A child’s curiosity, and he would pay for it the rest of his life. Now though, he hardly ever spoke unless it was important. Khudu glanced down at the ground, before nodding. Ambagai rolled his eyes, but that was enough for him. 

_“Fine.”_ Ambagai snapped. “But stay back! You can watch, you can learn, but you will not fight, understand?”

Mara nodded. It was the best she was going to get for now. They rode out into the vast steppe just as the sun peeked over the morning horizon. 

But the hunt was not a good one. Barely any beasts roamed the plains. Ambagai would stop every now and then, examining tracks or dung to see if he could track anything for them to bring home. Khudu would stare stoically off into the skyline, as if sniffing out a monster. 

Mara sighed. After hours in the saddle of nothing more exciting than seeing a few buzzards in the sky, she was aching and sore. This wasn’t exactly the glamorous hunting trip she had imagined. She had thought that there would be fights, monsters to hunt, real danger; instead, they had spent hours and hours galloping around for naught.

As she looked back across the steppe, the dawn throne but a tiny thumbprint on the horizon, she spotted something lying nearby in the grass. A dark shape amidst the green sea. “Ambagai,” she called out, pointing. “There’s something there!”

Ambagai reared his horse back, looking where she pointed. He squinted. “A carcass of some kind,” he said, galloping to it. 

Mara dismounted her horse as Ambagai knelt down, and brushed away the grass. Flies swarmed the body as the shape came into view; it was a person.

But it was no person like Mara had ever seen. No horns, no scales, and this person was larger than she thought possible, skin a sickly, watery green. The muscles the man had did not save him, as deep scratches and cuts ravaged his body. “Looks like a gulo got him, poor man,” Ambagai said. 

“One of the travelers from Reunion?” Mara asked. She had seen other races before in the markets, though none like this. 

“Why would a merchant from Reunion be all the way out here?” That, Mara couldn’t answer. 

Ambagai and Khudu exchanged glances. “We’ll bury him,” Ambagai ordered. “Mara, see if he has any valuables while we dig a grave. You’d know what would sell.”

Mara shook her head; all she was good at again, selling and trading. But Ambagai had the right of it. There was nothing left they could do for this poor man but bury him, and hope he had something to offer them in return. 

“Dusk Mother take you into her lands,” Mara mumbled for the man and she rummaged through his pack. He didn’t have much. Rations, some gold, nothing worth a great amount. Strangely, at his side, he had an overlarge book. Why the book was on his belt and not in his pack, Mara didn’t know. 

She took it from its holster and traced the blood red ship carved on its hard leather cover. The book looked worn, water-stained, weathered—why keep it outside when a pack could protect it from the elements?

Fingering a random page, Mara opened it, dark eyes widening at what she saw. 

There were no words in Hingan, or Eorzean, but instead, a multitude of geometric patterns. Circles and lines and diamonds, and shapes that made seemingly random pictures. Turning the pages, Mara found more pictures, more patterns, and a few paragraphs in Eorzean that she could barely read. Her violet eyes narrowed as she tried to understand it from memory of the Eorzean she learned at the markets. “Ruin...the basic spell...focus your mind...combat pattern...the way of the Arcanist...” _Arcanist? What was an Arcanist?_

“Find something?” Mara jumped as Ambagai came up behind her. She snapped the book shut, somehow, inexplicably feeling guilty. 

“Just a book,” she said.

He grunted. He was probably hoping for rare treasure. “Worth anything?”

“I don’t know, I’ll see,” said Mara, stuffing the grimoire in her pack. 

Ambagai sighed. “Well, let’s bury the poor man and be on our way, we have to bring home _something_ before nightfall.”

Mara nodded, returning to the horses as Ambagai and Khudu finished the grave. 

This weathered grimoire, she’d have to study it more. But in secret—something told her that the rest of the Kahkol wouldn’t like it if they knew...


	2. The Book of Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara practices spells in secret.

Mara kept the weathered grimoire a secret as they returned to Kahkol Iloh. There wasn’t anything wrong with reading a book she found out in the wilderness, but some instinct kept her from speaking about it to her brothers and sisters. 

Mara had never heard of this Eorzean arcane magic, that used books and patterns and spells conjured from images. In her bedroll, her back towards the smoldering embers in the tent she shared with a few of her sisters, Mara clutched the book to her body, violet eyes narrowed, as she scanned the tome through the dim light. 

She could read Eorzean, slow as it was, and the grimoire seemed to be a book of instructions for these strange “arcane magicks.” The geometric patterns were for helping the “arcanist” focus, it seemed. By opening their mind to the possibilities, an arcanist could use great power rivaling that of the thaumaturges. 

“The basic spell, ‘Ruin’,” one of the earliest chapters began. “Use the arcane energies to damage an opponent. Ruin their life force, sap their energy, and protect the caster from harm.”

The yellowed pages turned to a new shape, with lines and circles intertwined. So this was the pattern for Ruin? Mara stared at it, studied it, and though she followed the instructions, she had no idea where this power was supposed to come from. “Draw upon the geometric pattern...” How? It seemed impossible to receive power from an image. Conjurers drew upon the aether in nature, thaumaturges used energy from the ebb and flow of the astral and umbral cycles, so where did the arcanist’s power come from?

Mara heard a rustle and stirring from the corner of the tent. Quickly snapping the grimoire shut, she hid it under her pack. “Mara?” a wavering voiced asked. “You’re awake?”

“Restless,” she replied. “Go back to sleep Beka.” Mara pulled the fur blanket over her, though she didn’t feel the least bit tired. She was awake, entranced by the possibilities. Tomorrow she would journey to Reunion to sell the Kahkol’s wares. She’d have to find out more about the book then. 

_~~~~~_

Mara had been to the Reunion markets for years and years, and nothing ever changed. It was the most bustle you ever saw on the Steppe. Walking her horse with packs full of wool, yarn, and spun blankets into the markets, she looked left and right at the travelers within. Tall men from Hingashi wrapped in their silken robes, rice traders from Doma, covered in rags and tanned from years of hard work, Confederate sailors in their flashy bandannas with muskets at their side, with baskets of fish and coral. Xaela from many different tribes crowded around the stalls, of course, Qestir and Oronir and Dotharl and Dataq and Mol. And, in the very back of the markets, a few Eorzeans in their leather coats, looking out of place and confused at the strange customs of the Steppe. 

Though Mara hated being regulated to nothing more than a trader, she always did love the markets. The smell of meat and fish and produce, the sellers calling out their wares. Rainbows of wool and linen and silk, piles upon piles of rice and wheat. Rich, fine merchants with lacquered and gold trinkets, to the poorest peddler selling flowers and clay dolls. 

She had learned basic Eorzean here, had learned of the strange customs of other tribes. She had tasted Hingan sushi and Doman stew, had felt the softness of Ruby Tide silk and the toughness of Eorzean steel. By now, she could almost pick out the dozens of tribal accents among the throng. She would never learn all the languages that the various tribes spoke, though most defaulted to common Xallic, though each tribe spoke basic Hingan, the language of Reunion, in their own way. 

Well, except for the ever-present Qestir, of course. Though they didn’t speak, they seemed to understand every language. Mara had gotten to know many of them over the years, and had made friends, well, as much as the Qestir can be friendly to outsiders. 

After tying her horse to the large hitching post at the south of Reunion, watched over by a surly Qestir, Mara went looking for one of her friends. 

She found her at a jeweler’s tent, staring at the dazzling gemstones. Mara smiled and waved to the white-haired Qestir. “Ubani!” she said, walking up to her. Ubani turned, seeing Mara, and smiled. Mara had known the Qestir girl for a long time. At first, she wasn’t sure how to communicate, but over time (and from practice with Khudu) she had figured it out. The less talk the better, though sometimes, she did have to speak to get the point across. 

She looked well since the last time Mara had seen her, but something was new about her. She seemed to be beaming with a different happiness. Mara stared at her, trying to figure out what it was without having to ask, before she saw the jade bracelet on Ubani’s wrist. Jade...the same as her mother’s necklace. “Are you engaged?” Mara gasped.

Ubani blushed and looked down. So she was. It probably shouldn’t have been such a surprise; she was of age, and Nhaama had bid her children to be fruitful. Not all of them could be female Steppe warriors. 

Now that she had come of age, that was to be Mara’s fate too, someday. Everyone in the Kahkol had to contribute to the tribe’s survival. Marriage and children helped them to survive, to grow. She had seen the older girls blessed in marriage under Nhaama’s moon, eventually bringing children to their ever-growing clan. The Kahkol were not bound against their will to mate, as the Goro were, but if the khan or shaman started nudging her toward a particular match, well, what could she do?

All Kahkol must help the tribe survive. 

Still, Mara smiled at Ubani again, hoping she could get across that she wished her happiness. Though, she would need to speak to find what she is looking for. After another long smile, Mara asked, “Is there an Eorzean here? Who would know about books, or magic?”

Ubani put her fingers to her chin, thinking. After a moment, she pointed to the very end of the stalls. Mara smiled, nodding, and took her leave. 

It was indeed the last tent. A small, shabby stall, filled with many maps and books; the covers old, new, in a mixture of Eorzean and Hingan. Mara breathed deep the musty smell of scrolls and parchment as she came near. The merchant was a tall, tanned hyur, looking out of place in his linen shirt and trousers. He had a pair of spectacles on his nose as he gazed into an old yellowed book—he only glanced up when Mara came by, did not even give a greeting. 

“Um...Hello,” Mara began, in her basic Eorzean. “I need...book of magic,” she said, pulling out the weathered grimoire. “What is this magic? Where it is from?”

The man’s eyebrows raised as he looked at the grimoire, and gently took it from her. His fingers brushed the red ship on the embossed on the front, before gingerly opening it and turning the pages. “Ah, this is an arcanist grimoire,” he said, speaking thankfully slowly so Mara could understand. “Used by the arcanists to cast their spells. Where did you find this?”

“Dead man,” she replied. “Big, green, dead man in Steppe. Killed by beast.”

“A Roegadyn? In the Steppe?” His eyes opened a little wider. He snapped the book shut, gazing at the scarlet ship on the cover. “This is the symbol of the Maelstrom. He probably was one of their agents from Limsa Lominsa. Why one of them would be out here, I cannot say.”

“Limsa...?” Mara did not know that word. 

“Limsa Lominsa,” the merchant repeated wistfully. “A city in Eorzea. It’s where the arcanists have their guild. Their art was developed there, and the Maelstrom’s arcanists are fierce mages and soldiers.”

Limsa Lominsa...a city in Eorzea. “To learn...arcanist, I must go to Limsa Lominsa?” Mara asked, a sudden, wild thrill growing in her stomach.

The merchant handed back the grimoire. “Well, yes, I suppose so, but are you free to leave?”

Mara already knew the answer to that. A Kahkol must serve to ensure the tribe’s survival. And that meant staying in Kahkol Iloh...forever. 

_~~~~~_

The trade in Reunion had been good, and a week later Mara had returned to Kahkol Iloh. She had a heavy heart turning back from Reunion, looking across Nem Khaal and toward the vast grasslands to the south. South, where the Ruby Sea and Hingashi awaited. The way to Eorzea was South, but she had to turn West, back to her tribe. 

Mara was Kahkol. Her old tribe decimated, the Kahkol had welcomed her with open arms. All she had to do in return was serve the tribe. That meant learning to accept her lot, not dream of running off to this Limsa Lominsa to learn how to use the grimoire. 

Still, she wouldn’t give up on it entirely. She kept the book secret, peeking at it only when she was alone or in the dark of night. No one else knew how to read Eorzean, no one else knew of arcane magicks, so she kept it to dream. As she watched the sheep or helped the women card wool or spin yarn, she dreamed of going to Eorzea, going to Limsa Lominsa and learning how to be an arcanist. Becoming one of those warriors the merchant at Reunion spoke about. The thought of becoming a mage, a real mage; it stuck with her every day. 

And in those solitary moments, Mara couldn’t stop looking at the grimoire, at the arcane patterns, hoping to unlock their secrets. But they always eluded her. She didn’t know how to get this Ruin spell to work. She studied the pattern, took it into her mind, and yet...nothing. 

A late afternoon sun beat down on the Steppe as Mara leaned against a rock, grimoire in hand, trying in vain once more to understand. It was her turn to watch the sheep, and “call for help if there’s trouble,” but the sheep would be fine best left to themselves. 

“Know the pattern in your mind...” the grimoire had said, but what did that mean? Know the pattern in your mind... 

Mara stood up, book in hand, brushing her fingers against the shapes on the page. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, seeing the image in her mind. She saw the shapes clear as day, not sure what she was to do. “Know the pattern in your mind...use it to cast Ruin upon your foes...”

Mara imagined it, a gulo, out there on the steppe. She imagined it was coming towards her, running like a hellbeast. She saw the pattern clearly in her mind, traced the shapes beneath her eyelids. “Cast Ruin upon your foes...”

Then she felt it. 

A surge, like a leap of lava in her chest, and she popped open her eyes as _something_ flew from the book in her hand. She stumbled back like she had been hit by lightning as a small black ball shot out and disappeared. 

Breathing hard, Mara stared at the spot where the spell had gone. Ruin...that had been Ruin...

“I did it!” she laughed out loud, leaping up and hugging the book in joy. That was it, that was it! That was how it was done! Arcanists didn’t use the power of aether in the air, they used the power within themselves! She could do this, she could really do this, she could learn how! She could be an arcanist! She could—

But Mara didn’t have much time to celebrate. “Mara!” A furious voice called out. She turned, and a chill came over her. Ambagai. 

His face was contorted in anger as he stormed toward her. “So that’s what that book you’re always hiding is! Some kind of spell book? What were you thinking? You need to watch the sheep! If one of them had run off—!”

Mara clenched her teeth. “The sheep are just fine without me, Ambagai. And there’s no harm in it—”

“No harm?” he sneered. “Then why hide it? I see you sneaking around, pretending that you’re not always looking at it. That’s the book you found on the dead man, isn’t it? The dead Eorzean? What is it, some kind of Eorzean magic?”

“Yes, but what’s wrong with it?” snapped Mara. “I told you, I want to be a Steppe warrior! What’s wrong with learning a little magic? We have conjurers and thaumaturges!”

“You can’t learn magic all by yourself from a book,” Ambagai said, his voice losing its ferocity. “Where would you even find a teacher? There can’t be many of those on the Steppe.”

The words froze in her throat. He was right. “The guild is...in Eorzea.”

“So, what?” he said, eyes narrowing. “Will you go to Eorzea to learn? You can’t learn that type of magic here.”

“I...” Mara couldn’t answer. He knew she couldn’t. 

He seemed to have calmed down, and he sighed, closing his eyes. “Mara, if you want to learn magic so bad, I can talk to the shaman. We can get you a personal teacher in thaumaturgy—”

“It’s not the same as thaumaturgy,” she mumbled, staring at her boots. Her earlier joy was shattered. Ambagai knew the truth of it—she’d never learn it all by staying here.

“Its close enough, isn’t it?”

“But I want to learn _this_ magic!” Mara glared up at him. “I was able to read it! I was able to understand it! You saw me cast it! For once, I’ve found something I’m good at!”

“But you _can’t_ learn it!” He leaned down, arms folded across his chest, mere ilms from her face. “We are Kahkol, Mara. We live to strengthen our tribe! Our tribe needs you to trade with others, to be the translator in the markets. You can’t _be_ selfish! If you leave the Kahkol to go off and learn the Eorzean ways, how will we go on?”

Her heart continued to sink. Ambagai was right, he was right and yet... “There are others who could...”

“But you’re the best at it,” Ambagai said, looking away. “No one took to those languages as fast as you. You already have something you are good at Mara, why isn’t that enough for you?”

Mara swallowed, staring at the trodden grass at her feet. Why wasn’t it enough? She didn’t know. 

All she did know is that she had a choice to make. She could either be Kahkol, and live out her days on the familiar Steppe, with familiar faces and family. Or she could scatter caution to the winds, trust in Nhaama, and leave her home in far flung hopes of learning a strange magic in a strange land. 


	3. The Egi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mara learns a new spell, egi.

Days turned into weeks as Mara mulled those words from Ambagai over in her mind. _Why isn’t it enough for you?_

She didn’t know, she didn’t know, and maybe she’d never know.

Even so, she didn’t stop practicing with her arcanist grimoire. Every time she snatched a moment away, she practiced Ruin again and again. Perhaps Ambagai had decided to leave her alone, but despite the time that passed, she was not interrupted again. It gave her ample time to practice, to learn the feel of this strange magic as she sought to master it.

Soon, she could call Ruin at will, feeling the spell increasing in strength. Targeting rhino beetles on rocks and fish in the rivers, she focused her will, targeting them, hitting them. The first time she knocked a fish clean out of the water, dead in an instant, she knew she had done it. She had found her weapon…now to find a gulo or a wandering wolf to practice on.

Still, at least she had found an efficient way to fish while awaiting some wandering danger.

But there were limits to what she could learn on her own. Though Mara was quick to take to Ruin, the more advanced spells eluded her. She didn’t understand some words in the pages about Bio, a spell to poison her enemies and sap their strength, and she couldn’t cast it at all. Instead, she moved on to another page, a spell that excited her as soon as she translated the words; summoning a shade to fight in her stead.

“The…egi… _egi_? Is that what that word is? Hmm…” Mara stuck her tongue between her lips as she sat on a high ledge, overlook the flock of sheep on her turn to watch over them (or, as she liked to think, her secret practice days.) She continued to speak out loud, translating, “The egi…it is one of arcanist’s greatest weapons. Summoned from…from arcanist’s own aether…a minion, but able…able to be commanded to fight…to fight at arcanist’s side.” There was a diagram provided in the passage, along with some the arcane diagrams…it showed the summoner commanding a tiny monster on. There were more and more geometric patterns afterwards, for each commanding spell. So, the egi could be commanded to fight on its own, having its own will, or the summoner could keep it on a tight leash.

Studying the patterns, trying to will the arcane magic to work, Mara could see this was much more advanced than just a simple spell. If she couldn’t master Bio, how on earth could she do this? “An arcanist egi takes a differing shape…That means…” Mara flipped to another page, reading on. “Can call on specific shape or…depending on the situation…” If— _When_ she mastered this, what shape would her egi take, she wondered? And if you could tailor it to the situation…

Closing the book for a moment, Mara looked up at the sky. She imagined an egi of fire, swirling around her as she faced down a stampede of gulo. Perhaps an egi of water, a thunderous tidal wave bearing down as they charged Kahkol Iloh. Or maybe living rock, a being like a golem, three times her size, defending her from a blow before smashing a line into the dirt, knocking them all into the air like child’s toys…Though if she could change it at well, perhaps she could have all three?

The wind shifted; the Steppe grasses rustled in the distance. Perhaps she was anxious; worried Ambagai would come running with the shaman to cart her off, to toss the grimoire into Azim Khaat. Turning back to the page, Mara looked back at the egi pattern. Taking that image in, studying the geometry in her mind’s eye, she drew upon her own power; the aether swirling under the surface. _Remember what it felt like, casting Ruin._ She thought to herself. She had the aether to do this, she had the will…she just had to—

She felt something swirling within her, growing in power like a bubble of light. Just to let it free, let it be, let it out and then—

Mara threw out her hand to summon…but nothing happened.

Frowning, she looked back at the pattern. _Focus!_ She tried again, allowing it in, allowing the arcane power to wash over her, to swell and build inside her and then—

Still, nothing.

Frustrated, Mara snapped the book shut. The wind was picking up, ruffling through her dark blue hair. Obviously, this would take more practice. Well, she had all day, and the next, and the next…forever and ever and ever and then—

Dust on the horizon.

Mara glanced toward it, peering out over the ledge. The sheep were acting restless, no longer lazily grazing but moving about, some fleeing back toward Khakol Iloh. Windstorms were no stranger to the Steppe, but they didn’t usually get dangerous this time of year—

That’s when she saw it, the smudges and shapes as they rode on, like an army possessed. It was no large regiment, like a Garlean army that occasionally tried and failed to march into the Steppe, no, it was something _much_ worse.

Mara’s blood ran cold as she recognized those colors, those people on horses, racing faster and faster toward her, toward Kahkol Iloh.

A Dotharl raiding party.

Fear spread up from her stomach as she grabbed her grimoire, ducked down behind a rock. The Dotharl. Here. _Now._ The warriors were all out hunting for the day. The Dotharl could take all their sheep, and they would have no milk to drink, no wool to trade. They could come into Kahkol Iloh, and take all their goods to trade, all their food stocks. They could take everything they had and leave them with nothing.

Or, they could do what they did to Mara’s first tribe, and take _all_ , leaving naught but corpses and dust. Kahkol would be decimated, scattered, with only the warriors caught out hunting left.

The warriors, and _her_ , shaken with fear in her hiding spot.

Mara chanced a glance as they rode up; the sheep terrified and scattering. For all her talk of being strong, of fighting the Dotharl, protecting the weak…she near shivered at the thought. She wasn’t ready. She had just barely mastered Ruin. She couldn’t form an egi. She would be no match for them, with their bows and spears and swords. She could just hide here, wait for it to be all over, and help pick up the pieces. That would be the smart thing to do, the _safe_ thing to do.

Her mother’s jade necklace bumped against her breastbone, a solid, familiar weight.

She was no match for them and yet…she had to try.

The horses were moving fast; she would have to be quick. She had practiced precision and yet this would be difficult. Mara opened the grimoire to that page, her heart pounding in her chest, her throat, waiting until they were right under her hiding spot.

The black ball shot out at an angle, the misfire luckily hiding her true aim, and struck the ground just in front of the raiding party. The horses screamed, reared, the Dotharl yelling as they slowed to stop.

“The _Hells_ was that?” One of them snarled, his accent thick, rough as the Dotharl’s was.

“Someone’s here!” The leader, a dark-eyed male said, scanning the horizon.

“Don’t see anything but sheep.” Another said, glancing around. The sheep were now hopelessly running around, it some already lost in their fear.”

“You idiot! If there’s sheep, there’s someone watching them.” The Dotharl dismounted their horses, looking around the plain. “Find them!”

Mara held her breath. The ledge was higher up, chosen to keep her out of the eye of the shaman or anyone else coming calling. They wouldn’t look for her there, would they?

Still, she had an advantage. The Dotharl needed their horses for a raid. Maybe…

She sent another Ruin spell right at the horses hooves, the animals shrieking and running in terror. Two of the Dotharl yelled curses and ran after them, while the rest pulled out their weapons. A bow was knocked, scanning the area. “Where are they?” the woman with the bow snarled. “Time to make our souls shine bright!”

Mara took a deep breath, looking back at the arcane patters, feeling the aether swell up inside, willing her plan to work—

Two bolts of Ruin shot from her, each one twisting and striking two Dotharl at once. They fell back, in pain as the spell hit their aether. Arrows fired wildly, a Dotharl thaumaturge sent a blast of fire towards a rock on the ground, except it ricocheted, hitting the ledge, her hiding place. Embers smacked her shoulder, licking at her clothes. And though she had fought to keep quiet, she couldn’t help the gasp at the slight burn.

“Up there!” the leader of the raiding party yelled, pointing up at the ledge. “There’s someone there!” Mara felt the spell welling in her again, trying to send it right at his snarling face—

A fireball exploded in her vision, cracking all around her. Mara didn’t think; she held up the grimoire like a shield, remembering a shielding pattern she had seen once, though it was too highly advanced for her. Still, a weak shimmer appeared around her as the blast washed over, but it wasn’t enough. The fireball burst through the rock, the ledge, and Mara shrieked as she fell—she felt herself hit solid ground, ache and burn filling her bones. When she looked up through singed and dirt-streaked hair, she saw the Dotharl gathering around, their grins wide like demons.

“What’s this?” the female archer laughed, knocking another arrow. “Just a little girl?”

The leader of the raiding party picked up his spear and Mara looked on helplessly. “So this is the best warrior the Kahkol can give us.” The laughed, his laughter gripping her gut, each chuckle like a drop of blood. “And here I was hoping our souls were going to burn bright today.”

Mara gripped the grimoire like a lifeline as she rose up on her elbows, but her throat felt of ash, choking on her own fear. “Still, she may have cost us a horse or two…” He walked toward her like every monster in every one of her nightmares. “Perhaps we should set an example—”

An arrow shrieked through the air, piercing the dirt at the leader’s feet. “ _Mara!”_ Mara looked up on the horizon—Ambagai stood there, bow in hand, along with the other Kahkol warriors. A reprieve, but now her terror twisted even worse. They wouldn’t be enough, they were outnumbered and outmatched and—

“Leave the girl!” the leader shrieked, turning his spear on the small approaching group with relish. “Here’s a real challenge for us!”

The Kahkol warriors raised their weapons, but in their eyes Mara could see the fear. Dotharl were the best warriors on the Steppe, they would never back down from a fight, never back down until their enemies were dead—

Mara grabbed her grimoire and got to her feet as the Dotharl fell upon the Kahkol. She could hear the sounds of fighting, hear the clash of swords and thrum of magic. It would be bloody, people would die, if she didn’t stop them soon—didn’t think of something—

The egi pattern flashed in her mind as she held the grimoire aloft, calling upon Nhaama to grant her this—

The winds whipped up in the Steppe, fiercer than a summer storm. They shrieked and whistled and roared as they coalesced, not into something solid but into a shape, a mass, like a ghoul from the underworld. Howling with the wind, Mara sent it toward the throng, the fighting stopping as they gaped at the towering shape.

“Nhaama preserve!” One of the Dotharl cried out as Mara set it upon them, the wind slashing at them in all its fury. She saw a flash of blood as the wind struck one of them across a cheek, another across the arm. It wasn’t enough to kill but to maim, to injure, to terrify!

“The girl!” the leader yelled, turning back as Mara fought to maintain the power coursing through her. “It’s the girl!”

Mara commanded the shape to open it’s mouth wide, to scream and scream like all the victims of the Dotharl’s madness. The Kahkol fled as she set the feeble egi on the Dotharl, as they yelled as weapons were torn out of their hands, clothes slashed in its fury. They began to flee, running back to chase after their horses one by one. Finally only the leader was left, and seeing he was outnumbered, he gave one last snarl before running after his party. Mara turned the egi after them, chasing them a distance, before she could hold it no longer. With a gasp of exhaustion, she fell to her knees as the winds dissipated, the egi giving one final shriek as it faded away into nothing.

Perhaps she passed out for a moment; Mara wasn’t sure. It seemed like an eternity passed before she found herself looking up at Ambagai, his mouth a thin line. “Mara?”

She still panted as if the fight were still ongoing. “Is everyone all right?” she said, as he reached a hand to her.

He nodded.

She closed her eyes, smiling slightly. “Good.”

And then she did pass out.

_~~~~~_

When she awoke, she was back in her tent in Kahkol Iloh. Her clothes, singed and torn as they were, had been replaced; they’d have to be mended. It was dark now, the sky dotted with stars. Mara sat up; no one else was in her shared tent. It couldn’t be too late; Beka, always an early riser, hadn’t even gone to bed yet. Stretching, Mara put her hand down next to her cot, feeling the weathered grimoire at her side.

_Oh._

Everyone would know about it by now.

Perhaps she could hide it again; perhaps she could pretend nothing happened. Maybe even Ambagai would grant her that much—

No, after what had happened, she had to face it, no matter what.

Mara affixed the grimoire to her side, like a weapon, and took the slow walk to the shaman’s tent. Inside, huddled by the fire, was the Kahkol shaman…and Ambagai, speaking in hushed whispers. When they saw her, they instantly quieted. “Mara…” Ambagai spoke, unable to finish.

The shaman, however, near scowled. “I heard you protected us from a Dotharl raiding party.”

Mara sat down near the fire. _Here we go…_ “I was the first one to see them, I had no time to warn anyone.”

“Our warriors could’ve handled it.”

“They would’ve been too late.” Mara said through gritted teeth. “If they had just come for the sheep, they could’ve carted them off without us knowing, nevermind if they continued onto the Iloh.”

“We lost several sheep anyway, thanks to your foolishness.” The shaman scowled. “You should know how much wool that is; how many blankets it would’ve made.”

“ _Yes_ , but—”

“Your job was to watch them, and you failed even in that task—”

“I _was_ watching them, and then the Dotharl—”

“But you are no warrior! You should’ve fled and warned us! It is by stroke of luck that Ambagai saw the dust on the wind, realized what it was and headed back! Foolish, foolish girl, you could’ve been killed—!”

“ _I_ could’ve been killed!” Mara snapped, eyes wild with violet fire. “And what of our warriors! You know how the Dotharl fight! You know how few we are! We would’ve been slaughtered! If it wasn’t for me, Ambagai wouldn’t even be here with you!”

“But that wasn’t for you to interfere!” The shaman yelled back, her hand a fist over her cane. “You are Kahkol, Mara! If you had died, who would sell our wares in reunion? Who would speak the languages of other men and buy us our supplies? _That_ is your worth, that is your job. You may think it a simple one, but even the simplest are valued by Nhaama. We are lucky this foolishness cost us nothing more than a handful of sheep.”

“So…what?” Mara looked up at Ambagai across from her. He seemed conflicted. Pained by something. “I am your trader, your sheep watcher, your little errand girl for the rest of my life? Is that what I am confined to?”

“Mara, don’t—” He attempted to plead with her, but the shaman cut him off.

“You won’t do that forever, no,” the shaman sighed, looking into the fire. “Life goes on, moves to new stages. Nhaama asks her children to be fruitful. Someday, you too will go on to that new stage of life. Find a husband, have children, raise a new generation of Kahkol. In fact—”

“Oh yes, I forgot about that!” Mara near growled now, getting to her feet. “If so, then I would be truly trapped.” She turned on her heel in that dim tent, the grimoire bumping at her hip, fists clenched. So…it would come to this. She knew it would, and yet…

“Where are you going?” The shaman asked, accusatory. Nowhere near understanding.

Mara turned back to her, one last time, cold fury in her violet eyes. “Away.”

And then she walked out of the tent.

“Wait—!” Ambagai called after her, but she ignored him. It was a tranquil calm now, the rising fire tempered to naught but a cold heat. Walking back into her shared tent, she packed her posessions away in her saddlebag, seeing but not acknowledging the stares that followed. She met no one’s eyes; did not look back.

If she did look back, she might falter. And she could not risk it, not now.

Ambagai found her as she saddled her horse, under the light of the silver moon. His dark eyes were wide, sad, pleading.. “Wait, Mara!” He said, grabbing the reins before she could mount. “Don’t—don’t do this.” He said, softer, begging.

Mara looked back at him then, this man who had been her brother, this man who had chided her for her obsession, and hadn’t even stood up to defend her, despite everything. “ _What?_ ” She snapped, letting loose a little of that cold fury.

He didn’t even flinch. “Don’t go.” He said, sighing, as if he knew it was futile. “I will—I will talk to the shaman again. To the khan. If to be a warrior is what you want and—after what you did today I’ll— _we’ll_ find a way to work this out, Mara. Just don’t—”

“You _heard_ her.” Mara clenched her teeth at the thought. “I am naught but the Kahkol’s little translator. Our merchant. Despite what happened, despite what _I want_ , I will never be anything more than that.” She looked up to the stars, chuckling darkly. “Until they decide to ship me off to some man and breed me, at any rate.”

Ambagai let go of her horse, looking down as if he was drowning. “Must you speak of it in such distaste?” He said, softly.

Mara looked at him, _really_ looked at him, as if for the first time. For a moment, her resolve stumbled. Her cold flame of anger started to ebb.

But it wasn’t enough to quench it completely.

Mara sighed, looking away. “Find yourself a woman who wants what you do, Ambagai.” She said, gently. “Someone who wants nothing more than to live out on the Steppe ‘til the end of her days, raise children and praise Nhaama. I’m not—I could never be that person. I’m sorry. I want to see new places, learn new things…I would never be happy, and you know it.”

After a moment, a _long_ moment, Ambagai closed his eyes, and nodded. “I would wish for nothing more than your happiness, and if this is what will bring it…” He trailed off, but Mara understood the sentiment.

Pulling herself up on her horse, she looked back at him, now with only pity. “I hope for that for you as well…for all of the Kahkol, though I must leave. Goodbye…and thank you.”

With a little kick of her heel, her horse took off in a gallop, and she rode off into the Steppe, under a sea of stars. Kahkol Iloh became smaller and smaller behind her, eventually fading away into that sea of grass. She had many miles to go, to the Ruby Sea and then Hingashi and then, Eorzea.

But go she must. For there—across the sea and half a world away—she knew her destiny awaited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Now on to the fun stuff.


End file.
